


The Ghost of Johns Hopkins

by HigherMagic



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Astral Projection, Coma, Comatose Will Graham, Dark Will Graham, Flowers, Hannibal Lecter as Hades (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), Inspired by Hades and Persephone (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), M/M, Memory Loss, Past Lives, Will Graham as Persephone (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:47:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28442643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HigherMagic/pseuds/HigherMagic
Summary: The first time Hannibal sees the ghost of Johns Hopkins, it is an uneventful Wednesday night. In the middle of his shift, at two in the morning. At first, he assumes that it is a patient, journeying to the public bathroom in the hallway, or simply taking a walk around as the older ones do, giving Death a slow hunt to avoid shuffling off the mortal coil altogether.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 46
Kudos: 193





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nephila_clavipes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nephila_clavipes/gifts).



> the hades and persephone AU I've been teasing for fucking eons. more tags will be added as the story unfolds. enjoy! :D

The first time Hannibal sees the ghost of Johns Hopkins, it is an uneventful Wednesday night. In the middle of his shift, at two in the morning. At first, he assumes that it is a patient, journeying to the public bathroom in the hallway, or simply taking a walk around as the older ones do, giving Death a slow hunt to avoid shuffling off the mortal coil altogether.

And so he lets it be. It's not his business unless there is someone wandering around the surgical ward or the ICU who shouldn't be there, so he ignores it the first time. The second time he sees it, the hospital is almost grave-like in its silence, and so he hears the specter, before it becomes visible.

It does not only come with sound, and sight, but a scent as well. So unlike the pervasive stench of the sick and the dying that it strikes Hannibal and freezes him in place. It's floral, a vibrant bouquet of jasmine and freesia, poppies and violets. Ginger, and cloves. He follows the scent and sees the back of a man disappearing around a corner, into the hallway where they keep the patients who need constant care, or are little better than corpses who have yet to die.

Of the ten rooms in this particular ward, three of the rooms are occupied, and five of the beds within those. Hannibal doesn't venture here, he has no need, and so he navigates the hallway with careful steps, unwilling to interrupt the routines of the nurses.

There is one, stationed at the desk at the end of the hallway. She looks up as Hannibal approaches, and appears surprised at the presence of someone living and mobile. Hannibal slows, frowning, unable to catch sight of the man whom he followed. Nor, he realizes, can he catch traces of his scent.

"Did a patient pass by here?" he asks the nurse. "Just now?"

She frowns at him, and shakes her head. "No, Doctor," she replies, sounding irritated that he would interrupt her for something so trivial. Hannibal exhales, and leaves her be, walking away from the desk and down the hallway, back towards the operating rooms. He cannot, after all, afford to tarry and leave his actual patients without care, for the sake of a fleeting curiosity.

Hannibal has never considered himself particularly green-fingered, aside from the necessary upkeep of the herbs he grows for his meals. Before he lived in Baltimore, the matter of gardens and growing vegetables was handled by servants, or staff, or things he purchased from markets but never grew himself, as a student.

Now, though, he has a small space for a garden. He could not say what compelled him to buy this house over another one, except that he felt drawn to it as soon as he entered. It came furnished, which suited his needs, but on top of that, there was a weight in the rafters and a thickness to the walls that reminded him of…something. The darkness of the paint, the hardwood floors, the cool teal scheme of the kitchen and bedroom made him think of caves, and he found that reminder comforting.

And the stone of the bathrooms, and the dark slate roof, and the heavy curtains that made him think of tapestries…. Yes, he had known this place was home for him. And that came with a garden. So he learned how to tend to it, driven by some inner need, some thing that he was chasing and could never quite sink his teeth into.

It was important, to grow a garden. Not for food, though by this point he had been able to grow a modest harvest of tomatoes and peppers every year that he used in his meals. Nor is there any particular aesthetic need he's trying to sate, for he can easily hire a service to do things like mow the lawn and trim the bushes and prune the plants.

No. He needs to raise this garden himself. He's sure in time he will be able to deduce why.

He grows herbs in his home as well, long shelves of little plants where seasonings grow. Fragrant and plentiful, and well-kept. He finds himself lingering in that room more often, wondering if, perhaps, his mind is playing some odd trick on him and simply substituting a scent at the hospital with one from home. If the late nights are, indeed, catching up with him, though he has never suffered from his relatively short periods of sleep, and is not stressed.

When he sees the ghost of Johns Hopkins for the third time, just the tiniest hint of movement in his periphery, disappearing around yet another corner and gone when he gives chase, he feels that same odd, insensible drive. The same that compels him tend to a garden, and purchase a cave-like house.

He cannot explain it, but it's powerful, and as long as it doesn't affect his way of life, he sees no reason to resist.

Will Graham has been in a medically induced coma for almost five years.

He was shot in the line of duty, and there were complications during his surgery – not performed by Hannibal – and they'd put him under for his recovery, and he had simply not woken up. He can breathe on his own, his heart beats, his brain shows activity. Despite the long years of being fed through drips and I.V.s, he's as strong and healthy as he was the day he was shot. No bed sores, no pallor, no loss of weight or muscle mass.

It's quite the medical marvel.

He has been at Johns Hopkins for four of those five years, transferred out of a New Orleans hospital due to overcrowding. At least, that's what it says on the paperwork. If questioned, no one involved in the process would be able to precisely say _why_ Will Graham is in Johns Hopkins instead of somewhere in Louisiana. Or in the ground.

There are flowers by his bed. No one can remember anyone bringing him any, and they seem to last a lot longer than flowers ought to. And they come in such remarkable shades; blossoming purple roses and lilies the color of sunshine, and amaryllis, petals tipped with oxblood. Once every two weeks the hospital has someone come in and trim the hair and shave the faces of those in comas or unable to do it themselves. Neither the barber, nor those who give Will and his fellow bedridden sponge baths, nor the nurses on the ward, claim to have seen anyone leave flowers.

And yet, there they are, like clockwork, blooming fresh when the old ones die.

Hannibal could not explain why, at the end of his shift on another uneventful Wednesday night, he lingers at the desk, at the end of the hallway where the comatose lie. He feels the compulsion in the same way he tends to his garden and his herbs. There is something here, something he needs to sniff out, and hunt. Something not consciously hiding from him, but that has been planted like a seed, that needs sunlight and nourishment and water.

Something he must dig up, before it suffocates.

The nurse at the station is content to ignore him as long as he ignores her. She busies herself collecting and organizing patient folders, and then sits in front of her computer and types away at something Hannibal is sure is not official hospital business.

He tilts his head, and closes his eyes. The air conditioning unit kicks in above his head – it is the middle of summer, and the days are long and blazing hot, and humid enough that even nighttime warrants fresh air.

He lifts his chin, and opens his eyes, staring down the hallway. The only lights are from the soft emergency lines in the ceiling, the bright green EXIT sign, and the golden light at the other end of the hallway where it's more public.

The scent of elderflower and blackberries sits heavy on the back of his tongue when he breathes in. Following it, cinnamon and sage. He frowns.

The light flickers, and between the flashes of shadow stands a man. He's dressed plainly, in jeans and a white t-shirt. Not a patient's hospital gown, or as a member of staff. Like he is a visitor. When the light comes on again, Hannibal can no longer see him.

He straightens. Checks, quickly, that the nurse is still not paying him any attention. She isn't. Perhaps flickering lights is a common occurrence in the abandoned wings of the hospital. Perhaps Hannibal is the only one seeing them.

The lights flicker again, revealing a more familiar sight – a hand, slipping around the corner. Hannibal doesn't wait this time – he gives chase, rushing down the hallway and around the corner, searching for another sign of the man.

There is nothing. Just another barren hallway. Hannibal pauses at the corner, and sees a very small stain marring the pale blue paint. He touches it, and it's sticky. He lifts it to his nose to smell.

Maple. Tree sap.

He frowns, and looks up again. Turns around and spies a flicker, coming from one of the patient rooms. He strides towards it and sees another handprint-shaped stain on the door, smells the same mix of flowers and trees, open meadows and deep, silty rivers.

Hannibal tilts his head, and turns on the light.

There are four beds in this room, able to be separated by thin, plastic opaque curtains, but only one of them is occupied. The rhythmic beep of a heart monitor guides him to the bed by the window, on the left. He pulls the curtain back and steps inside.

It's a man. Mid-thirties. Caucasian. Brunet. Hannibal takes these things in absently, along with the fact that he seems to be in relatively good health. Aside from the coma. He checks the man's chart; his name, his blood type, his current course of treatment. His reason for being here in the first place.

According to his chart, he has been comatose for five years. How strange, then, that Hannibal is almost certain he is the same man he's seeing wandering the halls. He tilts his head, considering this Will Graham.

He steps up to the heart monitor, gazing at it as though it might suddenly shift pace with him near. It doesn't. The quiet beeping doesn't change. Hannibal purses his lips, and tilts his head. Will doesn't have the stale scent Hannibal normally associates with the bedridden. There's no blushing tenderness in his muscles, no sag to the skin on his face nor around his neck from lack of movement. For all intents and purposes, he appears to simply be asleep.

Hannibal takes another step forward, and leans down, breathing in by Will's hair. The scent of cinnamon, cloves, and maple coats him like tar, as though he's just wandered through a mist of it.

"Did you just smell me?"

Hannibal blinks, and straightens. And turns to see Will Graham, standing at the foot of his own bed.

He tilts his head as Will stares at him incredulously, brow creased and mouth twisted into something mixed between confusion and discomfort. "Difficult to avoid," Hannibal replies mildly.

Will blinks at him, his eyes widening. They are a glassy, glacial blue, like water trapped under a thick sheet of ice. They dart between his own body, comatose in his bed, then Hannibal. His cheeks go pale; startled.

"You can hear me?"

"Should I not be able to?" Hannibal asks.

"You're -." Will stops, swallows. He shifts his weight, and his hands twitch at his sides. He's overly in motion, likely to compensate for the fact that his physical body cannot move, Hannibal assumes. It must be rather unnerving to be forced into stillness for so long. "You're the first person I've met who can," he says.

Hannibal considers that. "That must be very lonely," he replies.

Will huffs, nose wrinkling in a bitter sneer. "Yeah. Understatement."

Hannibal looks back to the echo of Will, still and unmoving in his bed. Not even his lashes flutter. Hannibal tilts his head again. "Are you…aware of your situation?" he asks, as tactfully as he can manage.

Will doesn't answer, except to make a sound that is like a forced laugh. He nods.

Hannibal sighs through his nose. "I'm sorry, Will," he murmurs.

"Not your fault," Will replies. He sighs and approaches the other side of his bed, meeting Hannibal's eyes. "Just…knowing you can see me, it's a relief. Makes me think maybe I'm not just dying and this is firing synapses trying to convince me I'm alive."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. For all I know I'm bleeding out on the street after getting shot, and this is just the longest death throes known to man. But you can see me. So either the end is near or I'm not…." He swallows, looking down. His fingers curl around the plastic railing on the side of his bed. "They don't know what's wrong with me," he whispers.

"Yes, I read your chart."

"They've written me off. I know they can't legally say that or sign off without someone wanting to pull the plug, and I've got brain activity, I've heard them say that. But no one's trying to do anything about it. They're just waiting for me to give it up."

The pain in Will's voice is so heavy. He's too young to be that resigned, that defeated. It sits on him like clothes too large, the weight of the world shrouding him like a veil. It makes Hannibal think of vibrant plants and healthy crops devoured by locusts, makes the scent of Will turn sour and bitter on his tongue, molding and rotten on the inside.

"Well?" he asks, as evenly as he can. Will looks at him. "Are you going to give up?"

Will blinks at him, brow creasing. He looks down, knuckles white. "Should I?" he whispers.

"That's not for me to decide for you," Hannibal tells him. Will almost flinches, jaw clenched, teeth lined up on their edges. "But perhaps our meeting now was not mere coincidence."

Will hums. "I've found coincidence a lazy man's way of explaining things he doesn't understand."

Hannibal smiles, and Will lifts his eyes, and smiles shyly back.

The light flickers, suddenly, and Will flinches as though struck. "Doctor Lecter?" Hannibal frowns, and walks to the end of Will's bed so he can see out of the curtain. It's the nurse from the desk, and she's staring at Hannibal in confusion. "Are you…speaking to someone?"

Hannibal looks back at Will. He's in his bed. No longer walking among the living.

He smiles at the nurse. "Merely thinking out loud," he tells her. He gives her a nod of thanks and leaves the room under her watchful eye, and follows the direction of Will's handprint, on the corner of the hallway leading to the rest of the hospital.

He pauses, once he's out of sight, and presses his lips together. There is some strange compulsion in his chest to return to Will, to hope that he might manifest again and they can continue their conversation. Which is out of character for him. Aside from Will's insistent mind on remaining comatose, there is nothing about him that should strike Hannibal's curiosity.

And yet.

When Hannibal returns home, despite the fact that it's the middle of the night, he finds himself with gloved hands and a camping light, tending to the garden and making sure there is not a single dry leaf or errant pest present, no petal out of place. He seeks perfection, for a reason he cannot quite name.

When he goes to bed, the scent of blackberries and cinnamon haunts him, and makes him think of candlelit dinners in dark, dark caves. The warm, soft laugh of a lover in his ear, a gentle kiss on his cheek. They are pleasant dreams, but leave him with a terrible ache when he wakes up, that he doesn't know how to calm.

Will seems only able to manifest most clearly, and for the greatest length of time, on Wednesdays. Technically, Thursday mornings, between two and three. Hannibal's shift rarely extends to that hour, so he lingers in the hospital, making friendly chatter with the night staff under the pretense of being diligent with his patient care or finishing up post-surgery notes.

And yet, as the clock strikes two, he is in Will's hospital room. He does his best to avoid the night nurse when he visits, simply because he doesn't want to be interrupted. He has found that the ache in his chest only seems eased by Will's presence, and needs to diagnose why.

Will appears three minutes past, from behind the curtain as though he was merely making a quick stop in the bathroom. Hannibal never sees him rise from his body, nor return to it. His body is not a cage, more like a movie reel from which his consciousness is projected.

"We've got to stop meeting like this, Doctor Lecter," Will teases. He's not as melancholy as when they first met. Hannibal finds that he quite likes it when he can make Will smile, how it's a little lopsided and dimples his cheeks, makes him look much younger and almost always comes out slightly haughty. Like making Will laugh is a privilege.

"By all means, rise up and walk," Hannibal replies, as Will passes by him and perches on the other side of his bed. Hannibal procured two chairs for them to sit in, Will's body like a barrier between them. Will smiles, rubbing his hand over his jaw, and kicks his heels up, resting them on the edge of his bed. He slouches in his seat and lets his arms hang on either side of the armrests.

Hannibal tilts his head. "You seem more comfortable today," he notes.

Will grins at him. "Flowers come tomorrow," he replies. His eyes glow in the low light, a glimmer of frost on a lake, just waiting to take it completely and suffocate the living creatures below.

Ah, the flowers. Hannibal nods. "Who brings them?" he asks.

Will tilts his head. "I don't know," he replies, and frowns. "I assumed the hospital staff did. I'm not awake when they show up."

"But you like it when they're here."

Will's eyes soften, and he smiles in the vague direction of Hannibal's shoulder. "Yes," he replies, quietly. His fingers curl and drum up and down the thin curving armrests of the chair. His nails make tiny tapping sounds against the wood veneer. He frowns, then, and meets Hannibal's eyes. "The nurses have been talking about you."

"Oh?"

"There's no reason to visit me. But you do. Every week. Why?"

Hannibal laces his fingers together on his lap, and looks at Will's body, prone in his bed. His face, unchanged, no paler nor thinner. His hair, due for a trim from the hired professional the hospital brings in. He still smells of summer fruit and winterberries, no medicinal cling, no plastic cover. It's baffling. Even more so that Hannibal cannot detect, beneath the scent, anything in Will's blood or brain that would tell him why Will cannot simply _wake up_.

"I'm the only person who can see you," he says. "Once we both realized that, I thought it would be cruel to avoid you."

"Avoidance implies intent," Will argues. "You don't work this late. You could just go home and do whatever it is you do. That's not cruelty. I'm a stranger."

Hannibal's knuckles tighten, locking together.

Will's eyes are heavy on Hannibal's face, and Hannibal cannot meet them. It's strange to acknowledge, even stranger to admit that he still can't, even after acknowledging it. He exhales slowly through his nose.

"Hannibal?" Will's voice is quiet, unsure.

"I suppose I would consider it cruel," Hannibal finally says. "And I find the idea of unnecessary cruelty unpleasant."

"So obligation is more attractive to you than realism?" Will challenges, sitting forward. The motion draws Hannibal's eyes without his consent, and then his gaze is locked with Will's, and he refuses to be the one to break it first. "I feel like I've dragged you here. You don't need to stay."

The words make something in Hannibal stir, a thread of consciousness previously too high up to reach. But it dangles, like the string on a child's balloon. He wants to tug at it and see what unravels.

"I got here on my own," Hannibal replies, and smiles. "And the company is good. I think I'll stay, if that's alright with you."

Will considers him, eyes sharp. Though they remind Hannibal of ice, they make him feel strangely transparent. Finally, he smiles, lopsided and wide, showing the tips of his pointed canines. "Suit yourself," he murmurs, and then sighs. "But we don't have to stay in this room. I made it as far as the cafeteria once."

"If you're restless, we can wander," Hannibal replies, "but I find myself…rather possessive of your company. And wary of talking to thin air when there are others around."

Will laughs, and sits back. "Fair enough."

"What kind of flowers do you like, Will?"

Will arches a brow, gazing at him curiously. "All of them. Why?"

"Surely you have a preference."

"Can't afford to be picky. Unless there's a fruit punch flavored nutrient pack I don't know about."

Will's sense of humor is so delightfully flat. Hannibal laughs, and wonders when the last time was that he laughed so freely. "Not that I know of, but if there is, I'll make sure you're the first to know." Will grins at him.

Hannibal's watch beeps, and he frowns down at it. Surely it can't be three in the morning so soon?

As if on cue, Will hums, and stands. "I should go," he murmurs.

"You can't stay?" Hannibal asks, watching him cross to the corner of the bed.

Will hesitates, and looks at Hannibal. His hand rests on the plastic edge of the bed, the raised bar to which is attached his chart. He rubs his thumb over the metal clip, and bites his lower lip. "I don't know why," he says, "but I can't."

Hannibal understands that feeling intimately.

"What about tomorrow?" he presses, standing as Will moves past the curtain, unwilling to lose sight of him quite yet. When Will touches the door, it leaves a sticky imprint of his hand. "Can you -?"

"No," Will snaps, and doesn't turn around. When Hannibal reaches for him, Will steps away so he remains too far away to touch. "I don't -. I don't know why, but I can't." He shivers, jaw clenching, and shakes his head as though there's a particularly persistent fly buzzing at his ear.

"Good night, Doctor Lecter," he says quietly. Then, he leaves the room, and pulls the door closed behind him. By the time Hannibal can open it and look down the hall, Will is nowhere to be seen. The door handle is sticky, and stinks of molasses. No longer quite as pleasantly sweet as maple – this has the heady, cloying scent of sugar almost too sweet to bear.

Hannibal rubs his fingers together, and turns to look at Will's body, still prone on the bed. Of course, he thinks, though he's not sure from where the thoughts originate: Summer is ending.

That night Hannibal dreams of crisp fruit, flesh splitting between his teeth. There is a beast's growl above his head and candlelight casting wide shadows up the walls. There is a laugh, low and soft and so familiar in his ear, and hands covering his eyes.

"Guess," a voice purrs.

And he is smiling, turning towards the sound of the voice. He breathes in ripe plums and crisp mint and -, "Pomegranates?"

The voice laughs, and the hands fall away, revealing eyes of summer sky and a sharp-angled smile. "Your palate is getting better," he murmurs, touching a finger to Hannibal's cheek. His cheek rests on Hannibal's shoulder, and Hannibal breathes in again. Still plums, with roses and jasmine. His mouth floods with saliva as he embraces his beloved and receives another laugh.

"We should act tonight," he murmurs, a while later, sometime between a day and a century. It doesn't matter for the likes of them. Hannibal hums curiously, and receives a nuzzle beneath his jaw. "My mother will demand my return tomorrow."

Hannibal's chest goes tight, as does his grip along bared pale skin, as he crushes their bodies together like he might be able to fuse them into one being. He's embraced just as tightly, nails in the nape of his neck and dug beneath his shoulder blade.

"Will you help me?" he whispers, in a voice so familiar that Hannibal knows he will ache with the memory when he wakes up.

"Yes," he replies. Their kiss tastes of pomegranate seeds.

Hannibal can't help himself. He was never particularly good at curbing his impulse to pursue, whether it be a subject of knowledge or a meal or any other thing he might conquer. And so when he wakes, and his mouth burns with a kiss he can't remember the origin of, but knows it was a memory, not a dream, and when he thinks of returning to the hospital and finishing his shift and then simply _returning_ , well.

No. He cannot bear it.

He goes to the garden and lets his hands guide him by instinct, pruning the finest and largest flowers from their stems. Instinct tells him to choose the ones already close to dying. To avoid the ones that still have time to enjoy the sun and the lingering warmth in the air.

He ends up with a modest offering. Two roses, pale yellow, and a small bundle of freesia, and Queen Anne's Lace wound within that like a vine. He winds it with a small tie and pushes a stick of cinnamon into the middle of the stems, again following instincts he doesn't know the origin of.

And yet, when he lays it upon Will's bedside table, he thinks he feels a warmth in the room that cannot be blamed on the sunlight coming in, nor the last dregs of summer air. And he cannot help reaching out and, so lightly, brushing his thumb across Will's cheek, and leaning down to see if he smells the same as he did in his dream.

He doesn't, not quite. It's not the winter season yet.

"If you'd like to see me tonight," he whispers to Will's forehead, "then I'll be here."

And with that, he leaves.

Will doesn't show up that night, in his hospital room. Hannibal tries not to let that bother him, and he can't help returning every day to see that the flowers have not decayed in the slightest. They haven't been moved. There are others, left beside them, and Hannibal frowns and positions them so that his are the most visible.

That Wednesday, Will comes to him, looking distraught. "I told you I can't come any other day," he says, his voice harsh. "I told you that."

"Why?" Hannibal replies.

"I don't know why, I just can't!" Will snaps. He paces, refusing to take his chair. He looks at Hannibal again, his eyes shining. Then, to Hannibal's surprise, he circles the bed, and he's solid enough that when he takes Hannibal's hand, Hannibal goes, and feels Will's hands wrap around his, cool to the touch. "I wanted to," he says.

Hannibal looks up at him.

"I want to. I can't."

Hannibal presses his lips together, looking back at Will's body. Will looks with him, lowering their joined hands. It doesn't occur to Hannibal to pull away. His dream, all of them since the last time he spoke to Will directly, have shared similar half-memories. Will can't stay. Will has to go somewhere, sometimes. Will wants to stay but he can't.

Someone makes him leave.

Someone might be keeping him away, now. There's no medical reason why Will hasn't woken up. He should be able to wake up.

Hannibal looks back up at him, and kisses Will's knuckles. It feels like he's done it a thousand times before. Will's lips twitch in a smile, surprised, and fond, like he's used to such a thing as well.

"I may be gone, next week," Hannibal tells him.

Will swallows, closes his eyes, and breathes in deeply. "Alright. I'll be here."

They share another smile, and Will doesn't move for the entire hour he is there, their hands clasped together on Hannibal's shoulder.


	2. Chapter 2

That three-headed beast. Hannibal never much cared for it, it lived here well before his time and would likely remain long after. But his beloved adores the beast that guards the entrance for the dead. He sits between the large dog's forelegs and tosses scraps of meat up to each head in turn and laughs in delight when they fight over the pieces.

And to his credit, Kerebos is much calmer when Hannibal's beloved is around. The summer months are not just unbearable for his absence, but for how much the dog howls.

He comes with Hannibal when it is time for the domain of the dead to open and for his love to return home. He runs into Hannibal's arms and crushes their bodies together, and kisses Hannibal like it is their first and last time all over again.

And Kerebos insists on getting his greeting pets as well, before he will leave and return to his post. Not much changes in the realm of the dead, but the living are ever-evolving, and Hannibal listens to tales and updates of what newfangled ridiculousness humanity has gotten up to this year.

"There are men talking about how there are not many Gods, but one," his beloved tells him. Hannibal's brows rise, and he looks down at his hands as if he might find them suddenly disappeared. He laughs, and Hannibal cups his face and kisses him. "I think it'll be a nice change of pace."

"Oh?" Hannibal asks.

"If my mother has no one to prove spring to, then -." He pauses, and swallows, looking down at where their hands are clasped together, fingers entwined. "She's always so sad. And humans think it's because I'm down here, and if we could simply _prove_ -."

He stops, and shakes his head again. "Forgive me," he murmurs. Hannibal's dreams have given him Will's sneer, when he looks and spits down at the ground. They have given his beloved Will's bitter laugh and the dread he wears like a crown.

"My love," Hannibal murmurs, squeezing his hand. "Even Gods die."

"That's what I'm afraid of," Will replies. "There's more of them than there are of us."

"They can't be rid of me forever," Hannibal says with a smile. "No one wants my position down here. So I will remain."

Will considers that, and sinks his teeth into his lower lip. "I'll think about it," he promises, and smiles when Hannibal kisses his knuckles. "But I don't want to think about it tonight. I have missed you, worse and worse by the day."

Hannibal kisses him in answer, and leads him to their marriage bed. For the first time since the last day of winter, Kerebos is quiet, and the only sounds are his beloved's cries of pleasure, harmonizing with the constant wails of the dead. It is music to Hannibal's ears.

He chooses the man for the crime of urbanizing a park, which contained not only an endangered bird habitat, but a beautiful garden that makes Hannibal ache when he sees what it used to be, before it was destroyed. Anger twists in his stomach, behind his heart, up his spine like creeper vines, like thorns ready to rip him to shreds. He can't abide it, he _won't_.

And so he makes of the man a tree. In his chest, around his heart, in the place of his lungs, he places and weaves flowers with delicate care. When each root catches and takes hold, Hannibal feels a surge of pride and victory in his own chest. With each flower that blossoms, another hour of sunlight. With each thorn and gently curving stem, he could weep.

And he puts that man atop his bastard monument of concrete and stone, of metal and death. It takes him almost three weeks, from location to destruction to recreation. He rushes to the hospital, breathless, in an effort to make it before the hour ticks to three in the morning on Thursday and he loses Will for another week.

Will turns when he enters the room, and lunges into his arms with such a desperate, rough noise of relief. "You came back," he whispers.

"Always," Hannibal replies; a low promise. He closes his eyes and buries his face in Will's hair, breathing him in. Will has the cling of toffee apples to him, his hands sticky with maple as he clings to the back of Hannibal's coat. There isn't much time.

Will pulls back, and looks up at him. He manages a watery smile. "Show me next week?" he asks.

"I'll be here," Hannibal vows.

Will nods. He closes his eyes and disappears behind the curtain. Though Hannibal knows there isn't much point, he follows, to find only Will's unresponsive body. He sits with him a while, simply listening to his breathing, and the beep of the machine monitoring his heart. He reaches, and laces their fingers together.

His beloved's mother hates Hannibal with a burning passion. She is one of the more beautiful goddesses, in Hannibal's opinion – her glacial blue eyes, which she passed to her child, could put ice and the sky both to shame. She speaks in a manner cool and collected, used to things simply happening because of her desire to see them happen.

Oh, how she'd raged at Hannibal. And Will, and anyone who would listen. That her beloved child, who so lovingly tended to her flowers and her forests, who soaked up the sun and laughed when it rained on the grass, would be in love with the lord of the underworld was madness. Impossible.

Lots of things are impossible in the realms of Gods.

As the years progressed, her tempers grew worse and her depressions more awful. The dead were entering the underworld in droves come winter time, as she slaughtered them by the thousands. Her plants, with it. Hannibal would find Will weeping, often, whenever he listened to the dead talk about how cold and bleak the world was, how he had abandoned his mother, how much she missed him.

Until, there were no more tears. Until, instead, there was anger. It was more blistering than the coldest frost and cut Hannibal deeply, so much open malice surrounding his beloved that, for days at a time, he feared to touch him.

But Will is ravenous, in all his appetites.

"If we kill her," he had said, "then this will all stop."

"Would you like me to do it, my love?" Hannibal had asked. After all, he was already outcast and shunned in the underworld. They could not possibly banish him any lower.

Will's smile haunts him, in his dreams. The way his eyes had shone when he'd whispered, "No."

And, it turns out, there is a fate worse than the underworld. Worse than death.

Will's hands tremble when he wraps them around the newspaper, taking it gently from Hannibal's hand as though it might turn to ash if he holds it too tightly. His eyes well up, melting ice brimming at the corners, but remaining enclosed.

"Why him?" he asks. Not out of horror. He knows there is a reason, just as Hannibal knows to pick the older flowers.

"He destroyed a garden and built a parking structure," Hannibal replies. Will's upper lip curls, showing teeth, tears vanishing in the backdraft of heated anger as he stares back down at the photograph. Front page news. No suspects, of course. Hannibal is very good at what he does.

"Will," he whispers. Will looks at him. "Do you -?" He stops. Nerves grip him, something that tells him he could not bear Will's rejection, and must tread carefully. There is a tug, ancient and well-known to what he might call his soul.

Will lowers the newspaper, and takes a step forward. "Yes?" he asks. His fingers curl around the large clip of his medical chart.

"Do you have dreams?" Hannibal asks him. "When you're not here, where do you go?"

Will's brow creases. He looks away, to his body and then the ceiling and then the newspaper. Darting everywhere except Hannibal's face. "I don't remember," he confesses. "I feel it like an echo, sometimes. Something drawing me, but…."

Hannibal nods. He knows he has dreams. He knows he has them about Will. But they are so lacking in detail, and he could not recall what happens in them, nor explain how they felt to him. Only that when he has them, he wakes up with a hollowness so fierce it feels like he's dying.

"Do you feel that echo now?" he asks.

Will's eyes flash down to the newspaper. "Yes," he replies. "Something." His brow creases and he worries the inside of his lower lip. "I don't know what it means. But I know it means – it's stronger around you. And I feel like I need to be here, around you. I don't like not being here."

Hannibal smiles. Somehow, hearing that warms him better than any sunrise.

"I only regret we have so little time together," Hannibal murmurs.

Will shivers, and looks away again. He sets the newspaper down by his foot, on the bed, and raises his eyes to look at his own face. Even with the passing weeks, the many visits, he is unchanged. The flowers Hannibal brought him remain as perfect as the day they were pruned, as though because they came from Hannibal, Will treasures them for longer.

Hannibal follows his gaze. His hand gravitates, magnetized to Will's bones and sinew. There is steel inside him, Hannibal is sure, somewhere.

"I won't rest until you wake up, Will," he promises.

Will sucks in a breath, and trembles as their fingers lace. "I believe you," he whispers.

In a removed section of the lost part of the world, Demeter and Orpheus gather in the dead of winter. The air is blisteringly cold and works its fingers through every available crevice. Orpheus shivers and pulls his cloak tighter around his shoulders.

"Why did we have to come all the way out here?" he grumbles.

Demeter cocks a single golden brow, and purses her lips. "Because my child and his _darling_ husband are not here," she replies.

"They're not a lot of places," Orpheus mutters. "A lot of warmer places."

"Yes. Well."

"What do you want?"

Demeter glares at him, and then regards her nails. "They're going to try to kill me."

Orpheus narrows his eyes in disbelief. "…No," he scoffs, and shakes his head. "He wouldn't dare."

"Wouldn't they?" she counters, arching her brow again. "How can you be sure?"

"Hades is a coward," Orpheus mutters. "Content to hide away in his domain with his wife and leave the rest of us to it."

"It's not _Hades_ who concerns me," Demeter says.

Orpheus tilts his head. "You fear your own child?" he asks, scoffing again. She levels him with an unimpressed look, and he sighs. "I'm not going to interfere. You know that."

"I don't need you to _interfere_ ," Demeter says. "Merely…allow a state to continue." He frowns at her, and she smiles. "I'll explain at a later date. Closer to springtime, when he's back above the surface. Simply be ready for me to contact you." She tilts her head. "You can even use him, when he's mortal, if you'd like. Watch over him for me while he learns his lesson."

Orpheus laughs, and shakes his head. "I'm not getting within ten feet of your boy," he says. "I know better."

"Well. At least one of you does."

Hannibal continues to stay by Will's bedside every night. He feels as though he is preparing for something, guarding the gate. The idea comes to him on a whim, something he doesn't quite understand, but follows because his instincts have not steered him wrong yet.

The dog is of medium build, with a fluffy tail and dark brindle fur the color of hay and molasses. Hannibal finds him on the side of the road and tames him with some patience and food leftover from his lunch. The collar around his neck says his name is Winston, and Hannibal puts up flyers, but no one comes to claim him.

The instant he leads Winston into the hospital, a false working dog jacket strapped over his shoulders so that no one gives him too close a look, Winston woofs and darts off in the direction of Will's room. Hannibal follows with a smile on his face, as Winston runs straight into Will's room and comes to a halt at his bedside.

He whines, putting his muzzle next to Will's hand, and licks his knuckles. Hannibal almost expects Will to react, and swallows back his disappointment when, again, there is no change.

His eyes gravitate to Will's bedside, and narrow. There are new flowers there, spread out in an arrangement of soft pinks and lilac hues. His own have been removed, finally succumbing to decay even Will's power cannot prevent. Such is life.

Winston whines again, and jumps up, putting his head on Will's chest. His tail wags slowly, from side to side. He certainly seems to expect Will to wake up. When Hannibal gently pushes the dog to move, he looks up at Hannibal as though asking him why Will won't wake.

Hannibal sighs, rubbing his thumb over the dog's sleek forehead and between his ears. He sits at the chair beside Will's bed that he normally takes, his back to the window. The sunlight is deep and orange, setting behind the taller buildings. Will's face is in shadow, he looks cool and detached as marble. Hannibal's fingers curl on top of Winston's head, and he stares.

Until, at two in the morning, the curtain separating Will's bed from the rest of the room is pulled back. Hannibal looks up and smiles as Will enters. He pauses, and blinks in surprise at the presence of the dog at Hannibal's side. Winston looks up and his tail wags wildly when he sees Will, and he woofs in excitement.

Will is frozen, and looks at Hannibal with wide eyes. "What's this?" he whispers.

"I found him on the side of the road," Hannibal tells him. "I thought…you might appreciate some company." Will lets out a quiet sound, soft with disbelief, and he steps forward and crouches in front of Winston, cupping his soft cheeks. Winston whines, as excited as -.

As something. An echo in Hannibal's mind that tells him this is familiar.

Will presses his forehead to Winston's, scratching behind his ears as Winston pants and wags his tail and licks Will's mouth until he laughs. Will looks up at Hannibal, his eyes shining. "Thank you," he murmurs. "You didn't have to do this."

No, Hannibal knows he didn't. But he also knows there was never an option not to. He was meant to find this animal and meant to bring him to Will. He feels that in his bones.

Hannibal looks back, to the flowers by Will's bed. They are vaguely shaped like poppies, he thinks. He tilts his head, remembering such a scent on Will, long ago. His fingers flex, and curl, and come to rest upon his knee.

"Will," he murmurs, calling Will's attention back to him from petting the dog. "You don't know who brings you these flowers?"

Will shakes his head. "No," he confirms.

Hannibal's frown deepens. Surely there must be someone who notices a person bringing Will flowers so regularly? There are cameras all over this hospital, even if the staff themselves are less than attentive. There will be evidence, somewhere.

He looks to Will's body again. The scent seems rather overpowering today. He would call it coincidence, but that is the explanation of lazy men.

"You accuse me, your own child, of plotting to murder you?" The laugh of Hannibal's beloved is cold and high with disbelief. "My dear mother, where did this come from?"

"Don't play coy with me," Demeter snarls. They stand at the gate of the underworld, the cold of Hades meeting the stubborn warmth of Spring. Will's mother had been so warm until the moment she saw her child. "I am not a fool."

Will frowns at her, and shakes his head, taking a step back. Towards the underworld, and his beloved's arms. Hannibal stands behind him; he always sees Will off, his chest aching at knowing it will be six long months before he can hold and taste Will again. Even now, the inches of distance between them feel like miles, feel like centuries.

"I don't like this color on you," Will says. "I don't want to go with you, if you hate me."

Demeter's cold eyes flash to Hannibal, narrowed with anger. "So he has finally seduced you completely," she says. "Do you know what they call you, up above? _Dread Persephone_. They think of you as the whore of this cowardly -."

"Mother." Will's voice is cold. He takes another step back. "I think, perhaps, you could do without me this season. Until you're in a better mood."

"…You don't mean that," Demeter whispers, her face pale, her eyes wide. "You -. You don't mean that."

"Who says I don't?" Will challenges, and turns away. Above their heads, as Hannibal turns to follow him, Kerebos remains, and snarls at Demeter when she tries to follow.

Hannibal catches up to Will and stops him at the bottom of the steep downward path into Hades. In front of them, the river glows with the souls of the dead, and Charon waits upon his boat, staring at them silently. Will cannot walk along the river like Hannibal can, so he must take the boat, or he would ride upon Kerebos' back if the dog was not indisposed preventing Demeter entering the underworld.

"My love," Hannibal murmurs, a hand on Will's shoulder. "You realize what you've done."

Will's upper lip curls back, and he stares down at their feet. "What I've done, yes," he replies, and lets out a bitter sound. "The consequences that will follow it? I'm less sure. I doubt it will go without incident."

"Your agreement, and mine with my brother, stretches back for centuries," Hannibal agrees, tucking a stray curl behind Will's ear. He's fever-warm, skin exposed to the sun and soaking it up like stone. "Breaking it will not go unanswered for."

Will looks up at him, and then away again.

"Then I suppose we have to make sure to get to Zeus first," he says.

Hannibal frowns.

Will smiles, and puts a hand on his chest. "Will you help me?"

"I fear I never have a choice, when it comes to giving you what you desire," Hannibal replies with a smile. Will laughs, and kisses him.

"I like it when you say things like that," he murmurs, lacing their hands together. He looks back up the path, where in the distance there is still a glimmer of light from the world above. Kerebos' snarls echo down like a rumbling earthquake, and Will sighs.

"Come with me," he says, and leads Hannibal towards Charon and the ferry. "We need to make preparations." Hannibal doesn't know what for, what magic his beloved intends to use for his design, but he is sure it will require a journey to the darkest pits of his domain, where not even the brightest light can shine.

Hannibal asks for the security tapes at the hospital, for Will's ward, on the days when it is known he is brought flowers. Thursdays, always – they wilt on Wednesday nights, when Will wakes, and are replaced the next day.

Hannibal's reputation saves him from everything but the most cursory of questioning. The guard is an older, tired-looking man who's more than content to let Hannibal peruse old tapes on a ward where nothing exciting happens for long stretches of time.

Hannibal takes the tapes to one of the lecture halls in the hospital, glad that Johns Hopkins has a thriving med student program that has seen no technological upgrades since the nineties. The VCR player and box television on a rolling stand is tucked into the back of the supply closet in one of the lecture halls. These days, the projector is preferred.

He plugs in the machines and sits at the lecturer's desk, the television angled so he can see it. The screen crackles and buzzes with static, an uncomfortable whining sound making him wince. There are three tapes per calendar day, each one capturing eight hours of film. It's certainly going to take him a while to watch through all of them.

He's glad that, at least, he doesn't have to search any other day but Thursday.

Will comes to him during a quiet hour of the night, and Hannibal looks up. He frowns. "It's not Wednesday night," he murmurs.

Will smiles sadly at him, and puts a hand on his shoulder. He feels less solid than usual. "Yes, it is," he replies, and laughs. "I trust my clock better than yours. No reason for it to change." Hannibal doesn't like the idea of that – of losing time. But then again, time means little except the hour he gets to have Will by his side.

Hannibal merely hums in answer, gently resting his hand over Will's on his shoulder, and Will tilts his head, eyeing the screen. "What are you doing?"

"I need to know who brings you your flowers."

Will's brow creases. "Why?"

Hannibal considers the question. "I don't know," he finally replies. "It's…a compulsion. One that I'm finding difficult to resist."

Will eyes him, and catches his lower lip between his teeth. It makes his skin so white it's almost transparent, and Hannibal clutches Will's hand, troubled deeply when it seems he sinks through Will's skin before hitting something solid, like gripping his bones. "You're too far away from your body," he says, pausing the tape so he can give Will all of his attention. The need to see Will, to speak to him, to touch him, burns Hannibal where he stands, hot as the fires of Hell.

"You weren't there," Will replies with a shrug. His eyes move back to the television screen, and after a moment, Hannibal leans forward and has the video play again. It's grainy, the feed in full color but blurry so there's no chance of spotting all but the largest details. Hannibal has it playing at four times the speed, sure that he will know the person he's looking for when he sees them.

Will makes a sound, a few moments later, and when Hannibal looks up, his eyes are wide. "There," he says, and points to the screen. Hannibal pauses the video and rewinds it until he can see what Will is pointing at.

It's a man and a woman. The man is large and dark-skinned, bear-like, with a serious expression on his face. His companion, the woman, has hair the color of sunlight and a face that appears as though it's cut from marble. It strikes something in Hannibal, a deep flicker of memory that he cannot chase down. It throbs beneath his mind palace like an earthquake, shaking him to his bones.

In the woman's hands is a bouquet of fresh flowers. There are poinsettias, despite it not being timestamped for winter months, and poppies, and daisies framing the bottom edge. Hannibal frowns, and cannot help but think he has seen the man, at least, before. The woman is so familiar as well, in a way he cannot place, like an echo of a dream where a song was playing in the background.

"They come every other Thursday," Hannibal tells Will, looking up. "If it's Wednesday night, they will be here tomorrow." Will's brow creases. "I normally don't work during the day, not this early, at least. But I can, this time. I can meet them and ask them who they are."

Will makes a low sound, and squeezes Hannibal's shoulder. His fingers sink through Hannibal's clothes and skin, icy as the grave. "Be careful," he whispers.

Hannibal nods, and stands. "I'll come to your room," he promises. "Where I can see you better."

Will smiles, and looks up at the clock. They only have twenty minutes left, but every moment with Will is precious, and Hannibal practically flees from the lecture hall and up to Will's room, so that he can see and touch him properly, and hear Will clearly, and not as though his voice is coming from behind a veil.


End file.
